Out of Sight, Out of Mind

You know what has been awesome about this break-up?

Nothing.

Certainly not the fact that it happened right before my birthday.

Absolutely not the continued mixed signals transmitted by David. Like, for example, the package that arrived at my office on October 22. From...you guessed it.

Not the reminders the box contained: the framed 8 x 10's of the two of us on our trip, wrapped in each other's arms and standing on a street in Dresden. The picture of me perched on a hill in Ireland, all wind-blown and in-love looking. (What is it with men and their so-predictable, post-relationship "Hey? Over here! Look at me! Don't forget me, okay? I don't want to date you, but for God's sake, don't move on!!!!" Boy Antics?)

And obviously not the fact that I now own several blown-up, framed pictures of myself hugging my ex-boyfriend.

*stabs eyes out with shards of broken picture-frame glass*

That, my friends, is all not-even-a-little-bit awesome.

But, though I wouldn't go so far as to call it "awesome," you know what two factors have saved my post-break-up experience from sucking completely?

1. Distance
2. Netflix

The "Distance" factor is kind of working in a way I had not anticipated. Usually, when I break up with someone, my normally entertaining, skipping, happy, pixie-like Imagination morphs into a giant Fran-Drescher-voiced harpy and rips the faces off of Logic and Reason, and then feeds them to Self-Love who, for several months at least, just sits, whimpering in a corner, raking at its thigh-fat with unmanicured fingernails.

The Fran-Drescher-Voiced Imagination Harpy, now left to her own devices, will then play cruel tricks on me. She will, for example, convince me that I see the Ex-Boyfriend on the subway platform as the train speeds by.

Every day.

At least three times.

Or maybe, she will make me spend hundreds of dollars on a new dress that I don't need, but that The FDVIH feels I should have juuuuust in case the Ex-Boyfriend calls and wants to, say, have dinner at Le Cirque.

And, in her most cruel maneuver, The FDVIH will conjour up images of me seeing my Ex with his new girlfriend, in a bar, on the street, en route to their honeymoon, or in the year 2032 when my turkey-baster conceived daughter is taken to Prom by their son, who they refer to in mushy voices as "the product of [their] loving union."

BUT, though The FDVIH is normally undeterred by any information related to, let's say, reality, for some unknown reason the phrase, "That's impossible, he lives in Washington DC," automatically makes The FDVIH go from menace to coo in .5 seconds.

And this is wonderful.

I cannot convey how wonderful this is.

I can walk trippingly to the supermarket, knowing that I will not see David. Because, "That's impossible, he lives in DC." I can go to the movies, and be sure I won't see him. Because, "That's impossible, David lives in DC." I can get ready to journey to the ocean floor, to live a hermetic life as a participant in an underwater NASA experiment, and pause, held briefly by The FDVIH's witchy warning that David and his new girlfriend will be waiting for me, looking perfect in their bathing suits.

But then I can laugh, and get into my diving gear. Because, "THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE, DAVID LIVES IN DC."

See? Even when it makes absolutely no sense, the phrase still works, freezing The FDVIH in her trax. Or hoof-prints. Or whatever harpies have. Anyway, it is a beautiful phrase, and I love it deeply.

*sighs blissfully*

Then there is Netflix.

Netflix is like a little bit of Christmas in my mailbox twice a week.

Netflix is my new boyfriend.

We laugh together.

We cry.

We fast forward to the hot sex scenes.

Weekends come, and we are thrilled with the chance to spend time learning more about one another. Netflix shares himself with me; I tell him--using our super-intimate 5-star system--how much I liked what he shared. Gas, Food, Lodging with Ione Skye? Blech. Two stars. He feels bad and tries to do better next time. Nip/Tuck: Season 1? That's more like it, horridly amusing. Four stars. Netflix and I are friends again.

And so on.

Netflix lives for my input. He strives for perfection. His only goal? To entertain.

David, Schmavid. I belong to Netflix now.

Until, that is, this weekend.

Because David is in town.

*collective gasp*

I know.

The FDVIH is on a rampage. You have no idea. I put on lip gloss to go to the bathroom today, on the off chance that David might be in the ladies room.

Fuck.

And, worse still, The Station Agent won't arrive 'til Saturday.

I am soooo going to call David.

Fuck.